I slump back on the cushions. Why did I even call her just to hear stories that make me feel bad about all I don’t have? And yet, sitting on the sofa where Ammi usually pulls out her bed, sun streaming on the floor, I feel a nub of warmth in Mona, of connection.

Her voice brightens. “There is one possibility. Hema Auntie. She knows everybody. And I think Salim may have stayed with her in the beginning. Hold on, I’ll call her on the landline right away.”

I can hear her set the phone down, then she’s making pleasantries, and lowers her voice. I pluck out a word or two: “Sadia,” “better you see her,” and “no, no expectations.” When she comes back to me, she tells me to write down an address in Wayne, New Jersey. “Tomorrow,” she says. “Eleven o’clock.”

I want to say, “I have school,” but she adds firmly, “Hema Auntie will be waiting for you.”

After the call, I make my plan: I’ll drop Kamal at school, then drive to New Jersey. It means cutting classes but what else can I do? Kamal can go home with his friend Derek if I’m late. I go downstairs, move Ammi’s car, since there’s alternate parking tomorrow, then heat up Maria Auntie’s soup, sit with Kamal while he does his homework, oversee his bath, and put him to bed. Fatima texts me several times but I shut off the phone, finish my missed assignments, and hand them in electronically. Sorry, Ms. Ricardo, I write. I can’t be in school tomorrow. Doctor’s appointment. Then I shut the light off.

How easy it is to lie.

The next morning, after I’ve dropped off Kamal, I sit in the car and stare at the scrap of paper with Hema Auntie’s address. Great. I have to go see some auntie who is going to give me the once-over. Who lives at least an hour and a half away. I slam into reverse, swerve away from the curb. A car horn blares. Suddenly I’m scared. It seems like ages ago that Fatima and I were wearing our FREEDOM T-shirts and waltzing up the stairs to school, arms linked.

I’m furious at those people in quilted vests.

At my mother, for all her secrets.

At everyone, for stealing my last days of high school.

I clutch the wheel and steer through traffic to the entrance of the Belt Parkway. The Verrazano bridge looms, spires glinting. I swallow, tightening my grip. I’ve never driven across a bridge or so far.